


When the Lights Go On Again

by BelovedCreation



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2406260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelovedCreation/pseuds/BelovedCreation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After World War II is over, Emma Swan picks up the pieces of her life, calculating what she has lost and what she has gained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Lights Go On Again

The war had taken as many things away from Emma Swan as it had given her.

It had taken away Graham, her lover and her best friend. First he had been taken to Europe, then killed in a battle, buried with hundreds of other soldiers in a grave somewhere in France.

It had given her Henry, a young boy with the sweetest brown eyes and hopeful smile. After his father had died in Japan, his poor mother had given up and quietly passed. Emma took the kid in and raised him as her own ever since.

It had taken away her scrap metal, her panty hose, her money donated to buy war bonds. Creature comforts had been stripped away to give help to the boys overseas.

It had given her a job. With so many of the young men gone, particularly educated ones, Storybrooke, Maine had looked to the women to step up and run the town. Emma had been drawn to the newspaper. To the excitement and the hustle. For the chance to learn information faster than any others. To investigate the local scandals and to share the positive stories that brighten up a page filled with death and politics.

When victory is declared, Emma gets back her money from the government and loses her high standing at the Storybrooke Mirror.

Newspaper editor Sidney Glass, returning war veteran, takes the paper back over from temporary editor Regina Mills. The women whose husbands have come back alive (though not always in one piece, with missing limbs and dead eyes and fingers clasped tightly in prayer on Sunday morning) return back to their homes, back to where they belong.

Emma doesn’t have a husband. All she had was Graham. And now all she has in Henry, a growing boy who needs food on the table.

So Emma stays with the Mirror, despite the horrible treatment from the returning soldiers who would rather brag about their exploits than actually write about sleepy little Storybrooke, Maine.

With the returning men come a few new citizens. Men who are looking for another adventure. Men who had befriended some of the soldiers from Storybrooke. Men who had romanced the women from Storybrooke who had traveled across the world as nurses and Red Cross workers.

And then there is Killian Jones. No one is quite sure why Killian has come to Storybrooke.

Captain Killian Jones was in the British army. Apparently he and David Nolan had crossed paths over in Europe. This information is given to Emma casually over breakfast one day in Granny’s, when Killian Jones walks in the diner, everyone grows quiet, and David pulls away from Mrs. David Nolan for long enough to detect the shift in the atmosphere and inform Emma that he knows the strange man.

“Dave,” the man smiles, eyes haunted, coming over to the table and gently rapping his knuckle against the linoleum top.

With a quiet _smack_ , David pulls away from Mary Margaret again and grins. “Killian! Great to see you again.” He stands to wrap his arms around the dark-haired Brit. Emma exchanges confused looks with Mary Margaret, but the other woman seems just as bewildered.

(“He doesn’t talk about the war,” Mary Margaret insists. “And I don’t ask him about it. I don’t think any of the men are talking about it. Only saying that we needed to do it to get rid of the evil in the world.”)

* * *

Captain Killian Jones shows up at the newspaper office, bright and early Monday morning, and goes straight into Sidney’s office. When he comes out thirty minutes later, Sidney’s arm is around the Brit and he escorts him to one of the cubicles that was vacated by one of the brilliant women who now spends all day at home.

The cubicle right next to Emma.

“Miss Swan,” Sidney lifts the corners of his mouth in a gesture that could be either a smile or a grimace. “I would like you to meet Killian Jones. He will be your new supervisor in world news. Please make him feel welcome.”

Pressure builds up in Emma’s head and her chest as she forces a pleasant expression. Three months ago she was heading world news. Now some man, a complete stranger in Storybrooke, waltzes in with his good looks and British accent and external sex organs and _he_ becomes _her_ supervisor?

She ignores him all day.

The next morning, when she arrives at her desk there is a cup of coffee sitting next to her typewriter.

“You were in charge of world news, weren’t you, Miss Swan?” The deep voice behind her makes her jump, and Emma is glad she didn’t reach immediately for the coffee (as her instincts were dying to do), because then her snow white blouse would have been completely ruined.

“What is this?” she asks instead, gesturing to the steaming beverage. “A peace offering?”

Captain Jones nods earnestly. “It is.”

“Oh.” Emma blinks. She had expected him to skirt her question. “I see,” she adds lamely. There is nothing to do but reach for the coffee and take a sip. He didn’t add cream or sugar, and the rich dark flavor coats her taste buds and sweetly warms her throat.

He continues to watch her, single eyebrow raised as he waits for the answer to his original question. Emma swallows, pressing her lips together and trying not to yell. “Yes, for the past three years I was in charge of world news.”

“And then I show up and you get a demotion.” He leans against the wall of her cubicle and Emma cannot help but admire the flexing of his arm muscles, exposed by his rolled-up shirtsleeves. Captain Jones nods when her scowl deepens. “I see.”

“It’s been hard,” Emma whispers, wondering why on earth she’s confiding in this stranger. “The men coming back, booting us out of the workforce just as we were getting used to it.”

Captain Jones nods again. “I’ll tell you what, Miss Swan,” he says. “I cannot get you your old pay back, or your position at the paper, but I will promise not to keep you from writing the stories that you would like and I will not belittle your experience here at the Storybrooke Mirror.”

Emma’s jaw drops in shock, and all she can do is nod, take a seat at her desk, sip at her coffee, and begin typing. After a minute, Captain Jones goes back to his own cubicle.

* * *

“Once again, Miss Swan, I must remind you that I hardly think this is appropriate-” Captain Jones begins before Emma cuts him off with a glare.

“I thought you said that you were not going to keep me from writing the stories that I would like, Jones,” she counters, fiercely pulling open the passenger side of his black Ford truck and sliding in. She slams the door behind her and only has to wait a half a second before he joins her, muttering something under his breath about _damn American women_.

“I have been looking forward to this conference since last year, Mr. Jones,” Emma sniffs, when it is apparent that Captain Jones will not say anything more. “Typically the head of the world news section attends the conference. As former head, what is so inappropriate about helping smooth this transition?”

“What is inappropriate, Miss Swan,” he growls, cranking the motor and maneuvering the car down Main Street, “is that you and I are both single, young adults embarking on an awfully long road trip without additional supervision.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “This is 1946, not 1746. I hardly think that we need supervision.” She spares him a glance before returning her eyes to the road. “Besides, it is not like you are that attractive. I have no problem controlling myself.”

Captain Jones bristles, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead and shoulders rising. “Excuse me, Miss Swan, but I am what is referred to as ‘devilishly handsome.’” He grins. “The women back in England were throwing themselves at me daily.”

She snorts. “Where are these women anyway? If you are so ‘devilishly handsome’ where is your wife?”

The way that his eyes darken and his mouth sets into a firm line sends immediate signals to Emma’s thoughtless brain. She has stepped on a landmine.

The rest of the journey is spent in silence.

* * *

When Henry arrives at the Mirror office after school lets out, he begins to rush to Captain Jones’ cubicle instead of Emma’s. She immediately tugs Henry back to hers, muttering to Henry about _not disturbing him_ but Jones brushes her off, patting Henry’s shoulder and offering to share stories of the war. Emma catches snippets of his tales over the next several weeks: his time policing London, his years in the trenches of the French countryside, and his months near Paris. His stories never get too dark for the eleven-year-old boy, and for that Emma is grateful.

She learns a lot about Captain Jones from those stories. Learns that he had an older brother he admired who was killed in combat. Learns of his fierce loyalty to the British Empire and to liberty for the world. Learns of the lengths he had gone to protect his men. Learns of the tenderness that rescued French citizens and carried crying babies out of bombed-out houses.

Although she still resents Sidney for making Captain Jones her superior, she finds she cannot help but respect the man who musses Henry’s hair and calls him “lad” and sends her sweet smiles when Henry asks brilliant questions.

“He takes after you, you know,” Captain Jones grins knowingly into her cubicle one day.

“Henry?” she asks.

“Of course, unless you have another son I am unaware of,” he replies, grin turning into a smirk.

Emma shakes her head softly. “Just the one. He’s enough of a handful for me.”

Captain Jones clears his throat and Emma senses his discomfort before he asks the question. “Did the lad’s father die in the war?”

She nods and takes a gulp of her coffee. “He did. Over in Japan, in fact. His mother was so heartbroken she died a few weeks later.”

The furrow that appears between Captain Jones’ brow and the widening of his eyes is so comedic that Emma feels the corners of her mouth tug upward. “His- his mother?” he sputters in confusion.

“Yes, Jones, his mother,” she replies tartly. “I took Henry in a few years ago after he had been orphaned. You haven’t noticed how he calls me ‘Emma’?”

Captain Jones blinks in surprise. “Honestly, I thought it might be some modern American parenting. You do things so differently than we do back in England.”

Emma chuckles. “Nope. He’s adopted. I couldn’t stand to see him enter an orphanage with all of the other children who lost their parents to the war.”

Jones’ eyes narrow and he observes her so keenly for a moment that Emma almost pulls her blazer tighter, afraid he can see beneath her clothes. “Were you an orphan as well?” he asks. But it is hardly a question. He seems to have the ability to read her emotions like an open book.

She nods. “I was. War orphan, even. My father died in the Great War. My mother died in childbirth a few months after.”

Jones takes two steps forward, entering her cubicle for the first time since his second day at the Storybrooke Mirror. “I am sorry to hear that, Miss Swan.” He lays his hand on her shoulder, the same hand that has patted her son and handed her a morning cup of coffee. His hand is large and calloused and warm through the layers of her clothing. She does not understand how this simple touch makes her heart beat slower and melts the rigid muscles of her back. Her eyes look up to meet his and, for the first time, she realizes that they are a bright, bright blue. They are pools of intelligence and compassion and she can read him like a book as well.

Killian Jones is a good man.

And he is an orphan as well.

“Thank you, Killian,” she murmurs, laying her hand over his own. It sends a jolt through her spine and all the relaxation at his touch has turned into a tense awareness that he is standing rather close to her and his breath is blowing puffs across her face. Her eyes cannot help but dart down to his mouth and, as if he knows exactly where she is looking, he licks his lips slowly. When she tears her eyes away and looks into his icy irises again, she can feel his desire radiating outwards.

She takes a step back.

Jones retreats as well, seeming to come back to himself. “I should get back to work,” he mutters. And then he is gone, back to his cubicle, leaving Emma flushed and breathless.

* * *

It is late at night when Emma hears it, when most of the office has cleared and only two pools of light are visible in the office, created by her desk lamp and Jones’. She had sent Henry to Regina’s hours earlier. He jumped at the chance to spend the night with Regina and her returned beau and new husband, Robin Loxley. Regina spins pure magic with her lasagnas and pies, something Emma has never been able to compete with. The pile of paperwork had promised her a night that would stretch into the early hours and, with her glasses perched on the end of her nose, hunched over her typewriter, it takes a minute before she identifies the sound.

It is a moan. And it is coming from Jones’ cubicle.

She slowly stands and peeks over the cubicle wall. The dark head of Killian Jones is rested on his desk, mouth wide open and eyes pressed fiercely shut. His shoulders twitch and his face contorts in pain.

He whimpers and a single word escapes his lips. “Milah.”

The tone sends a chill through her. He cries out again, louder. “Milah!”

Emma rushes into his cubicle, gripping his shoulder and shaking him awake. “Jones,” she barks. He whimpers again. “Killian! Killian!”

His eyes finally fly open, and in their wide terror Emma can see a reflection of something horrifying and hollow. The pain clenches at her heart before he blinks in confusion and the fear drifts away.

“Emma?” he whispers. “What- what is going on?”

She keeps her hand on his shoulder, kneeling down next to him so she can look him in the eye. “Killian, are you alright?”

“Yes, I am fine,” he sighs. “I was just-” he looks around at the dark and deserted office. “I think I just fell asleep.”

“You had a nightmare.”

He only nods.

Emma hesitates. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

She expects him to shake his head. She expects him to brush her off and pretend that nothing happened. It is what she has seen every time one of the soldiers has been questioned about his time in the war. It is understandable.

He nods. “Could I?”

Flabbergasted, Emma stands and leans against the desk, keeping her hand on his shoulder. He lays his own hand on top of hers and takes a deep breath.

“When I was over in France, like many of the men, I met a woman and fell in love. She worked in a tavern in one of the small villages and she was amazing. Fierce and beautiful and strong.” He takes another deep breath, mouth twisting into a painful smile. “And Jewish.”

Emma doesn’t have to hear the rest of his story to know how it will end. To predict that the woman will be torn from him and killed by the vicious Nazis. How he will discover this when the war is over and his heart will be broken into a million pieces.

“With my Milah dead and my brother gone, I had nothing left to return to in England,” he concludes, hand trembling over her own. “I remember Dave telling me about the idyllic town of Storybrooke and I figured it was as good a place as any to make a fresh start.” He slides his hand off of hers, joining the other one that rests in his lap. For the first time since he started his tale, Jones looks into her eyes and she can see all of the pain of the last four years swimming beneath the ocean-blue surface.

Emma slides her hand off of his shoulder, caressing his neck and cupping his rough, stubbled cheek. She feels a shiver race through him, followed by his flesh pressing into her own, seeking warmth and comfort.

She leans forward and gently kisses his soft lips, relishing the tender feeling of the quiet office and his heart, poured out for her to examine and judge. When she pulls away, a single tear escapes the corner of his eye and quickly falls down his cheek.

“Emma,” he whispers in awe. She waits a moment for him to complete his thought, but apparently that is all he wants to say, as the word is only accompanied by a sad, crooked smile. She returns the smile, thumbing his damp cheek.

“His name was Graham Humbert,” she whispers back. “And he promised to marry me when they shipped him off to France.” A tear makes its way down her cheek as well, a mirror of his own and she does not know if she cries for Milah or cries for Graham or cries for Killian or cries for herself. “He never came back.”

Killian’s knuckle brushes against her wet cheek and the sad smile shows no sign of dimming. “I am so sorry, love. So, so sorry.” And then his lips are brushing against hers and it is more firm this time. It is the kiss of two people who have lost so much in the war. Who have lost their hope, who have lost their loves, who have lost their way.

When she pulls away, she finds something new in his eyes and the room does not seem as dark anymore.

* * *

“I do not want to stop working at the newspaper,” Emma says immediately, sharing the first thought that comes to her mind.

“Dammit woman,” he growls from his place kneeling on her front porch. “That was not the question that I asked.”

“Well that is my answer,” she bites back. Her eyes leave the diamond in his hand to look at the clear blue of his eyes. The nervous twist of his mouth is adorable and she is sorely tempted to kiss away the anxiety that rests on his brow.

“Of course, of course,” he grumbles. “But will you marry me, Emma?”

She nods happily and allows him to slip the ring onto her finger, her initial shock slowly fading into a blinding bliss. He stands and wraps his arms around her. Killian’s hand cups the back of her head and draws her in for a dizzying kiss. Faintly, Emma hears the cheer of Henry hiding somewhere in the house, obviously aware of what was going to happen and listening in to hear her answer.

When he pulls away, Killian’s crooked smile tugs at her heartstrings and Emma softly kisses him again. In the last few months, somehow she and the Captain have taken their two broken and battered hearts and bandaged them back together with affection and honesty and patience. His love of Henry is powerful and his respect of her abilities in the office is refreshing. Killian Jones has become her partner in every way and warmth spreads throughout her limbs at the feeling of contentment that he will continue to do so for years to come.


End file.
